


Rub-a-Dub-Dub Two Nerds in a Tub

by rayeliann



Series: Tangled Threads [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Bubble Bath, Denial of Feelings, Emotions, F/M, Humor, Injury, Mild Smut, Non-Graphic Smut, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4366334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayeliann/pseuds/rayeliann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the events of Inquisition, after Adamant Fortress and Halamshiral.  Rowan Cousland and Carver Hawke have joined the Inquisition and found each other again after years apart.  Skipping ahead 10 or so years from "This Doesn't Mean A Thing".  This is a one-shot that was supposed to be a humorous take on the obligatory bath-fic.  But feelings happened and I got invested.  Illustration by me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rub-a-Dub-Dub Two Nerds in a Tub

**Author's Note:**

> Special thank you to http://bloomingcnidarians.tumblr.com for beta-ing and being so incredibly helpful.

 

“Ro?” Carver’s boots made a terrible clomping sound, and Rowan could practically hear the mud chipping off of them. All over that beautiful rug that the Inquisition had put in her room.

Truly, the accommodations in Skyhold were beyond her wildest expectations. From all of the reports, and Leliana’s missive, she had expected a crumbling, drafty ruin. It was at that, but it had been furnished with flair and tasteful elegance. She had seen gaudy luxury on occasion during her time in Orlais (before Clarel had exiled her) but she suspected she would never be comfortable with finery.

“In here.” Rowan replied, her words echoing off of the high porcelain walls of her tub. She leaned her cheek against one, closing her eyes as her mind drifted. She remembered days when a bath was the height of luxury, and often stolen in a nearby stream or lake. Inns had given her a rare chance to bathe in an actual tub, made of coarse wood clamped together with iron bands. This… this was divine. She would never leave this tub. She would die clean, smiling, and a bit prune-y.

“What are you… Would you like me to come back?” Rowan’s eyes opened to Carver’s face looming over her tub, looking down at her. Maker, she had missed those sharp cheekbones and stubborn, square jaw. His dark hair was cut the same as it always was, tousled and wind-blown across his forehead, but the unmistakable touch of a delicate beard shadowed his jaw-line. His blue eyes sparked almost challengingly as he looked down at her, unashamed by the way his eyes strayed from her face, lingering over her submerged, naked form.

“You can stay. What did you want, Carver?” Rowan asked as she pulled herself up into a seated position in the large tub. She rested one arm against the curled edge of the tub and regarded her intruder cooly. She was happy to see him, but she would never say as much. But she allowed him to interrupt her ablutions - her time to shut out all of the world and just… be. This time was sacred to Rowan, a time when she could wash all of the dirt, grime, and bad decisions from her skin until she was sparkling and new and strong enough to keep fighting. That she allowed him to stay - that said enough.

Rowan had worried that after their initial chilly reunion, the numerous explosive fights, the events at Halamshiral, declarations of... _intense_ emotion, and their last… _incredible_ encounter, that Carver might not wish to continue… whatever it was this was.

After their recent tryst, Carver vanished for a few days and Rowan had not bothered to track him. She had flat-out ignored the urge to ask his brother, though the way Mors had grinned knowingly at her had sparked her curiosity (as well as several more murderous thoughts about the eldest Hawke brother).

Rowan did not express her relief in seeing Carver towering over her, his blue eyes coolly wandering over her body with a desirous look that she could almost feel on her skin. She had known men across Thedas (and a decent number of women), and none of them looked at her the way Carver did, his blue gaze sending lightning through her, bright and burning hot, her skin on fire. Rowan was an experienced liar, a master of deception - she let her question hang in the air as she feigned nonchalance. Her eyes closed as her head lolled back against the tub, long, wet hair trailing down her back.

“I… what?” Carver asked as he jerked in surprise, very much forgetting whatever it was he had come to her room for. Rowan grinned slyly, the old crooked grin that Carver knew so well, and he felt his heart somersault into his chest.

“Would you like to join me, Carver?” Rowan’s voice was a low purr, her green eyes hooded. Carver found he could not speak, swallowing hard as his head spun. _Maker,_ the way she said his name sent chills up his spine as her tongue curled around the syllables, carrying traces of the lilting Orlesian accent. He closed the bathroom door behind him, fingers flying to tear at his clothing. Rowan chuckled, sliding down into her bath as she waited for him to disrobe.

Clothes tossed haphazardly across the floor, Carver scrambled toward the tub, as if he worried that given time, she might change her mind. Rowan slid forward, bathwater and fading bubbles sloshing around her as she made room for Carver to settle in behind her. He pulled off his last article of clothing – a worn sock with a hole that let his big toe peek through- and plunged into the tub.

Rowan squealed, choking on a giggle as Carver knocked clumsily into her, turning her face to avoid the… rather _sensitive_ area that greeted her at eye-level. Carver slipped and with large, calloused hands and a crushing grip, he grabbed the nearest source of support – the crown of Rowan’s head. Rowan’s giggle turned into a surprised yelp of pain that mingled with Carver’s hurried apologies. With a terrible sloshing, and the spattering sound of water hitting the floor, Carver settled into the tub.

“Did I hurt you?” Carver asked as he wiggled, trying to get comfortable. The porcelain of the tub was shockingly cold against his back, and he had only managed to get one leg into the tub. The other looped awkwardly over the curled edge, his hairy toes pointing skyward. The leg that made it into the tub was longer than Rowan remembered, and Carver’s bony knee jutted up next to her - his body a tangle of muscled limbs covered in dark hair. She had moved quickly to avoid the knee catching her chin, as it folded forward at the perfect height.

“Nearly blinded me.” Rowan replied with a wry smile, barely holding back her laughter. She tipped her head back, looking up at him over her shoulder. She felt the member in question pulse against her back, and Carver grinned down at her sheepishly.

“What is this?” Rowan continued, her lips pulling tight as they wavered with laughter as she indicated the leg Carver had not managed to get into the tub - continuing to hang over the edge. She snorted as her laughter broke free of her control.

“I um… I’m a bit tall for the tub.” Carver’s voice was oddly muffled, and he snorted with laughter, touching his forehead to her head as he chuckled against her hair. Carver moved, pulling his leg into the tub with an effort (as inflexible as ever, Rowan noted) and an audible grunt. The dirty heel of his foot came frighteningly close to colliding with Rowan’s face. Rowan shifted in alarm and she heard water splash over the edge.

“I don’t think this is a two person tub.” She observed with an amused chuckle. She leaned back to kiss her companion, but found that the dimensions of the tub (and the addition of Carver’s knees) didn’t allow her to complete her rotation.

Carver was laughing openly at her contorted position, not about to offer help as she flopped about like a fish out of water. Rowan braced herself on one of his knees, hoping it would help, but the bubbles had made her skin slick, and she slipped around helplessly, fueling Carver’s laughter as she fought to face him. Bathwater continued to spill onto the floor, forming a small moat around the smooth porcelain tub.

With an exasperated huff and scathing, muttered obscenities, Rowan admitted defeat by tossing herself back against his broad chest. Was he bigger than she remembered, or had she shrunk? He certainly seemed much more… solid. Not that she was complaining. She’d noted when he stood side-by-side with his brother Mors, that Carver had gained the advantage of height and weight, though by a slight margin. But she had changed too… Four years was a long time.

Rowan’s long, wet hair curled in intricate swoops and shapes as it stuck to his chest. Carver pulled his arms into the cramped space of the tub, and encircled her.

His hands were rough against her slippery -smooth skin, and his fingers slid over her lithe body familiarly. He remembered every curve, every raised or puckered scar. Years apart had not dimmed his memory of her.

Amid the chaos, his memory of Rowan had blazed bright and brilliant in his mind, always the last thing he thought of before drifting off to sleep. He’d run over and over the day before she had disappeared in his head. Had he done something wrong? Had she hinted… had she mentioned? Stroud had waited years before revealing he knew exactly where Rowan had originally gone, and why she’d been ordered there. Even then, he had refused to share the details with Carver, insisting it would endanger her. This only fueled Carver’s desire to uncover the information. If Rowan was in danger… if she needed him…

Carver ignored Stroud’s directions, breaking into his rooms in the Warden outpost near Kirkwall at the first opportunity. He tore through the veteran warden’s belongings and broke the locks on a chest at the foot of the bed. Carver was not concerned with concealing his crimes. Stroud could send him into the deepest, darkest part of the Deep Roads as punishment. He had to know.

Carver found the missive with Warden Clarel’s signature, ordering Rowan to report to Val Royeaux. She was to be Warden Commander Clarel’s new assistant, hand-picked to serve as second in command. This was a promotion, though it had not been worded as such. He knew she had no choice, but he had always wondered if Clarel’s orders has been the excuse she’d been looking for, if he’d helped to chase her away. Had her disappearance wounded her as deeply as it had him? Had she meant those fevered words that had slipped out of her mouth, barely a whisper against his ear? The words he had not dared to think or hope to hear had been so quiet, it might have just been an impassioned sigh…

Rowan closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of Carver’s fingers tracing lazy paths along her arms and across her collarbone. As they wandered lower, dipping under the water, Carver’s lips touched her neck lightly, hesitantly. His inquisitive fingers danced over the soft curve of her breast, rippling over her ribs, and along her sides, whispering across her thighs.

Rowan’s own fingers ran blindly behind her, up his neck and twining into his hair. Her hands curled into fists, sighing as her back arched and her hips rocked back against him. Carver’s breath caught sharply, and he made a guttural, inquiring noise in the back of his throat.

Rowan grinned as something warm fluttered in her ribcage. After years apart, Carver still remembered. It was almost their own language that evolved from habitual contact and familiarity and they could communicate with a collection of unintelligible noises, facial expressions, and fleeting, perfunctory gestures. At least, they used to be able to. They had not tested that connection since their rather rocky reunion. But how easy it was proving to fall right back into old habits…

Rowan answered Carver’s inquiring noise with her own affirmative - almost chirping- noise as she pressed her head against his chest, straining to kiss the underside of his jaw. It was rough with fine, curling dark beard hairs, and Rowan giggled. This, this was new. She rather liked it.

Carver kissed her ear, scorching lips trailing along her neck and jaw as his hands slid over her hips, hesitant as they ventured southwards. Rowan sighed little noises of encouragement as one wandering hand neared its destination, her fingers pulling on Carver’s hair playfully. Carver’s free hand gripped her hipbone hard, holding her against him with grinding contact.

“ _Carver._ ” His name tore itself from her lips as a plea, and his chest rumbled with pleased laughter.

His fingers were calloused and rough from years of sword-training. They were the hands of a seasoned warrior, scarred and gnarled and weathered. She remembered their crushing almost clumsy grip as he dragged her to him in the dark in the Deep Roads. She remembered his teeth grazing against her skin as his hands bruised, shaking with tenuous restraint and an overwhelming need to be nearer to her.

This time they were gentle, soft. Same scarred, calloused hands, but they had learned a measured control. He traced soft, slow circles against her, and at his touch, Rowan felt her hips tilt as her body began to respond, her eyes falling closed as she let out a soft sigh that almost formed his name.

Everything came rushing back to her, in snippets of half-formed memories. Biting kisses, sharp words, and clumsy groping in the dark had somehow turned into gentle caresses, open-mouthed kisses, gasping confessions, and… _caring_.

Oh, _Maker_ she cared. There were no words for the sudden, intense wave of emotions that hit her without warning. She had been fighting it off for so long. She cared. She cared for this gangly, foolish idiot. This realization shook her, and one of her legs jerked involuntarily.

Rowan’s foot crashed into the end of the tub, the sound of the porcelain ringing through the room and shattering the calm she had worked so hard to achieve. Her toes folded under, and she felt the little bones in her foot crumple, snapping and popping painfully. She sat straight up with a howl of pain. Her arms swung back as she reactively pulled her knees to her chest, and a sharp elbow caught Carver in the center of his chest.

Carver gasped as the air rushed out of his lungs, bathwater sloshing over the sides of the tub, remaining bubbles quickly evacuating the choppy area the couple occupied. Rowan was cursing, and a good portion of it was in Orlesian.

“Are you ok? I am so sorry!” Rowan asked, trying to spin to see Carver. He stopped her sudden movements with a hand on her shoulders as he regained his breath.

“Please… don’t jerk around like that…”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” Carver grunted in response to her flurried apologies, his grip on her loosened, and his fingers traced comfortingly along her shoulders as he huffed, breathing deeply as the pain in his sternum waned. Rowan sat frozen and waiting, half-turned (as much as she could manage in the narrow little tub), green eyes wide and guilty. Her foot throbbed painfully, bringing tears to the corners of her eyes. She tried to ignore it.

“How’s your foot?” Carver asked finally, grinning cheekily, as having the breath knocked out of him did little to hamper his good spirits. He had been in an uncharacteristically good mood since he had been reunited with Rowan. Varric and Mors had both mentioned as much. Rowan had her foot draped over the edge of the tub, injured toes curled and already purpling. Carver did his best to stifle a laugh.

“This will be a fun one to explain to the healer.” Carver said in an odd, nasal tone, lips wavering on the brink of laughter. He pressed them together, fighting the welling mirth valiantly.

“Healer?! No!” Rowan sounded shocked, and though he only saw the back of her head, he knew her green eyes were wide.

“Ro, you have to go. They… they look…” A muffled laugh-snort from Rowan caused his self-control to slip, and Carver found his words choking around laughter.

“They’re broken.” Rowan howled as the laughter claimed her. This would be an interesting one for the healer indeed.

“You’ll have to carry me there. You did this.” Rowan giggled, her slender form shaking with laughter. Carver was nodding with tears in his eyes as he gasped his reply.

“Me? Perhaps we will have her look at my ribs while we’re there. Make sure you haven’t cracked any of them,” Carver protested good naturedly. He had entertained a few fleeting worries that Rowan had changed during her time in Orlais. Carver found himself relieved that they were falling back into their old habits. He smiled at the tradition of blaming the other for their injuries. They would be back to hurling loud, creative epithets at one another any day now. He would have it no other way.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Rowan was still laughing heartily, bracing herself against the side of the tub. She was right. Carver remembered one particular occasion on which she had managed to crack three of his ribs. Carver had enjoyed the look on Rowan’s face when he had told the healer it had been an ogre.

“Clothes first.” Carver decided prudently. No doubt the Skyhold healer had seen far stranger things than a dripping, bubble-coated naked Warden duo, but it would be best not to strain their welcome. He pulled himself out of the bath, soap-slickened feet landing on the wet floor. His arms wobbled, catching hold of the tub as he slipped in the veritable lake of bathwater that had sloshed over the side in their thrashing attempts at a bath.

“This was a bad idea.” Rowan told him as he grabbed towels from the nearby hook and wound one around his waist. He fished her from the tub, lifting her by her under-arms like a child. Rowan squirmed for a moment before her laughter rang out loud and uncontrolled. Despite her words, an amused grin played across her face.

“Never again.” Carver agreed, wrapping her in a towel as she balanced on one foot on the slippery floor. Rowan slapped at his hands, and wrapped the towel securely around her chest by herself.

“Again? You sound awfully sure of yourself Carver Hawke.” Rowan chirped playfully, remembering multiple occasions she’d made similar remarks - only to find Carver’s confidence proven true. If things went as they had--finding herself inexplicably pulled back to him time and time again--that would be just fine with her.

Carver let out a whoop of laughter, recognizing the familiar reply. Same old Rowan.

“There was a _hole_ in the _sky_ , darkspawn-magisters walking about, screeching dreams every time I try to sleep and demon-spewing rifts all across Thedas. If I can be sure of anything, I hope it **_is_ ** you.” His tone was sarcastic, but something in his clear blue eyes twinkled seriously. Rowan swallowed hard as she felt her stomach drop to her toes.

“Yes.” It was a small, strangled word that hurt her throat, and she had to look down, blinking hard and scowling at the floor. Her heart was hammering and her hands felt sweaty. _Andraste’s ass_ , she was no good at this sort of thing. Emotions were weaknesses. When you let someone in, you gave them the power to utterly destroy you. But, it was too late for that, and she knew it. Clearing her throat, Rowan repeated herself.

“Yes. You can be sure of me.” Her hands made nervous little fists, fingernails digging into her palms, and her stomach churned violently. But she got the words out. Audible and clear. Carver’s brow lifted slightly in surprise. He had grown accustomed to Rowan’s silence in the face of such comments.

He kissed her.

He nearly lifted her off of her feet when he did so, taking her by her lithe shoulders and pulling her to him. Crushing his mouth to hers in a way that pushed all of the air from her lungs. As quickly as he’d seized her, he released her, clearing his throat and looking chagrined.

“ _Oohhh_ ” Rowan exhaled, her head spinning. The pain in her foot had dulled to a thumping in the back of her hazy vision. She blinked repeatedly, fighting to clear her head. Fix her foot first. And then… then she would pay attention to the warm want in her core that had failed to ebb entirely, even in the face of injury.

Rowan had already shown as much weakness as she dared, and she squirmed free of Carver’s embrace, hobbling on the heel of her injured foot. She took a few wobbling, limping steps toward the door, and her good foot slid out from under her. Carver caught her neatly as she tipped forward, sweeping her up into his arms. Rowan laughed at the ridiculousness of this heroic motion--of Carver making such a heroic motion--and she tipped her head back as her eyes sparkled up at him. For all of their bluster and ill-humor, they were becoming a bit like one of those couples in the books that the Seeker was so fond of.

“We’ll need to clean this up before we go to the healer. Otherwise, I fear the Inquisition servants will speak to Leliana about having us killed.” Rowan gestured at the lake that now graced her bathroom floor. At her command, Carver pivoted, grabbing the hanging spare towels and tossing them onto the puddle around the tub. They were immediately soaked, swallowed whole in the bathwater mire that had been created.

Rowan burst out laughing again.


End file.
